


Easy Like Sunday Morning

by spacemonkey



Category: U2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 22:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11299776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: While attending a work dinner, Edge finds himself distracted by the person sitting next to him.





	Easy Like Sunday Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys, welcome to another installment of me attempting to write porn and somehow managing to completely not write porn. Like what even is wrong with me? I'm sorry. But this was just a bit of fun, written in an hour or so, THOUGH THERE WAS MEANT TO BE PORN, I SUCK SO BAD. But, um, enjoy? Title just because it made me laugh (and is true!) and there really isn't a fixed era this is set in so to speak, but Bono has long hair, so that should give you some sort of an idea ;)

The thought had appeared early in the evening, lingering in the back of Edge’s mind for a good while and coming forefront only when Bono turned inwards so that their knees bumped beneath the table—and with such a movement of course came a look masquerading as something innocent, when it was anything but. The tablecloth hid their knees, hid any movement their hands might make—did make—and when that smile emerged, Edge could think of little else but what he could do—would do—to the body that was slowly but surely shifting closer to him. What could he do to that fiery little spitfire who might put on a mask of pure outrage when called out for his actions, but when alone would pull Edge in closer and say to him, “how hard was it to keep from grabbing me and pulling me from that room?” Or, on the more playful of evenings, he might just ask, “how hard was it?” with a hand trailing south, a wide grin on his face that dissolved only when he found the answer to his question, biting his lip as he watched Edge’s expression change.

Most times, Edge found his answer to be something along the lines of _so hard, and getting harder still_ , as nothing was sweeter than the truth. And with that nugget of truth came Bono’s reaction to his words, a revelation in itself. There must have been a group of scientists somewhere in the world who, despite their lack of funding (because who would fund such a study besides Edge, and god knows his accountant would never go for it) were researching whether it was, in fact, actually possible to be addicted to another human being. Edge, of course, knew the answer. He’d known it for a while now. And while addiction sounded like such a terrible word, something that was doomed for either ruin or change, he embraced it.

The evening had started early and was heading well into the night, looking to stretch over to the next day, and after too much wine and a slightly overcooked steak, Edge was done with the whole thing. The life of the party, however, was always hard to drag away. Even when his hand was where it was, hidden beneath the delicate white tablecloth. But Edge had plans. He’d been stewing over them for a good forty minutes now, silently congratulating himself all the while for not giving in and jumping Bono in the middle of main course. When a lull in the conversation came, he leaned in with a furrowed brow and, loud enough for the entire table to hear, asked, “Are you alright?”

“What?”

“You look a little flushed.” He found Bono’s hand beneath the tablecloth, where it lingered high between his thighs. Giving his fingers a quick squeeze, he added, “And tired. What’s going on?”

“He looks fine to me,” Larry piped up.

Bono didn’t break gaze. The corner of his lip quirked, and such a tiny thing was enough for Edge to plan in absolutes for the rest of the evening. “Actually,” he said, “I’m feeling a little off.”

“I knew it,” said Edge. “You look like you should be in bed already.”

“Right. I probably should. I probably shouldn’t have even come out tonight.”

Edge shook his head. “Let’s not get too hasty, it was important we come here.”

Another quirk of the lip. “Was it?”

“Isn’t it always?”

Adam’s sigh was long-suffering. “So, you’re not coming out to the club after then?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Larry sat back in his chair, arms crossed as he levelled Bono and Edge with a knowing glare. It was deserved—the spiel wasn’t for them. It hadn’t been for a while. The rest of the table appeared suitably concerned. “Apparently Bono is sick.”

It was a somewhat quick process from there, though dessert was deemed necessary by one, and with dessert there had to be another glass or two, and with them lingering well after Bono had been struck down, when they actually did get up to leave early the rest of the table differed in their reactions _. No, stay a while_ and _one more drink, come on_ were the most popular phrases, along with suspicious glances that Edge pretended not to see, though sometimes he couldn’t help but wonder if the entire world actually knew, and there they were, two shmucks doing their best—or their absolute minimum, if certain people were to be believed—to hide such a damning little secret.

For a moment, it did look as though Bono was going to sit back down, swayed as he were by the crowd, but then they were off, swooping through the room as apologies and promises of another night out were made, and with their world so often loud, the silence that found them in the elevator was almost startling. It didn’t last. A smile graced Bono’s face before the laughter broke free, and they were still giggling about it as they climbed into the back of the waiting car.

After finally turning serious Bono, in a low voice that kept the driver innocent, said, “If only this were a limo.”

“You say that about every vehicle we encounter.”

“Yeah, but. . .” Leaning in closer, Bono whispered in his ear, “With the partition up and some tinted windows, Edge, just imagine what we could be doing already.”

Edge didn’t have to imagine. His memory was faulty in so many ways, but there were some things that would never leave him, that he was glad to remember on those lonely nights.

With a smile he turned his head, watching the driver for the both of them, and when the traffic proved to be enough of a distraction was when Bono’s lips found his neck, for the briefest of moments. And then he was gone, shifting back towards the window as though nothing had happened. Though there was a question waiting to be asked, and soon enough Bono let it slip out: “How hard was it, Edge?”

Sometimes Edge just couldn’t help himself. “You’ll find out.”

He had ideas alright, little fantasies of what could and should and would transpire when they stepped into that hotel room, and from the look he was getting, Bono was right there with him. Planning. There were so many things he could think of and so little time and stamina, and as they walked down the hallway it seemed impossible to make a choice. As always, he wanted to do so much, and never, _almost_ never, did he ever get to accomplish even half of it in a single night. “Bono,” he started as they closed in on the room. He wasn’t entirely sure of what he even wanted to say, just that he had to say Bono’s name, a word that had left his lips countless times over the years, and yet always felt fresh and new.

“Shh.” Bono shook his head. “No talking. I’m sick, remember?”

“Right. And talking aggravates your illness, does it?”

“Of course it does, Edge. I’m terribly irate and delicate, you know.”

“I did know that.”

“Thank you. Key card?”

“It’s your room.”

Bono gave him a withering look. “Be gentle with me, Edge,” he said as he pulled the card from his wallet. “I am so incredibly delicate this evening.”

“I wouldn’t dream of being anything but gentle with you, Bono.”

Bono smirked as he pushed open the door. “Liar.” Following him inside, Edge fumbled for the light before pulling Bono back into him, holding his wriggling form until well after the door had closed behind them. “Hmm.” Bono arched back into his crotch. “I guess I just found out.”

It took four steps forward for Edge to have him pressed face first into the wall. He expected a protest, but when only silence greeted him Edge was almost offended. With one hand he swept Bono’s hair from his neck, the other trailing down his side, finding all the right spots and continuing until it was safely nestled between warm thighs. Kissing Bono’s neck brought forth a sigh. Sucking at it brought forth exactly what Edge was waiting to hear, joined by a full-bodied shiver that didn't quite seem real. Though it was. It always was, and when it happened, as it often did, Edge felt mighty powerful indeed. Here was Bono, a man on top of the world, reduced to such a state by his right-hand man, his best friend, his companion, his whatever and his everything, depending on the day and the mood. Here was Bono, falling to pieces because of him.

Bono’s voice shook when he asked, “What were you thinking?” His head fell back, his hair tickling Edge’s neck. “Tonight, when I first touched you?”

“What do you think?”

“It’s always nice to hear you say it.”

Bono’s belt buckle was proving to be an enigma to Edge’s normally dexterous fingertips. But he was determined. He had plans. They both knew what those plans were. “I was thinking of throwing your fork under the table and making you get it. And while you were down there—”

“You are so fucking predictable, you know.”

“I’m just a man who knows what he likes, if that makes me predictable—”

“In my sordid little mind,” Bono turned in Edge’s arms just before his belt could be undone, cheeks flushed, gaze searching, and the smile that appeared was one that the world never got to see, “I pictured us putting on the show for the party, right there on the dinner table. Doing something that we could both enjoy. But you, Edge, you just want me to blow you.”

“Are you saying you don’t enjoy it?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“You basically said exactly that.”

“Don’t—”

“I always thought it turned you on.”

With a strangled laugh Bono looked heavenward briefly, his hands coming up to rest against Edge’s chest. There was something in his gaze when he glanced back down that gave Edge pause, that made him lean forward and kiss him far gentler than first intended, that made him want to climb a mountain only so he could shout down to the world exactly what he was feeling. Adoration didn’t seem like the right word, though it was there, of course it was there. But there was something darker, heading towards lewd but not quite there, that made Edge feel as though he were the luckiest man in the world. And there they were, delaying the inevitable with mindless babble. “Tonight,” Edge said, “I had so many thoughts regarding what I might do to you—with you—that it nearly overwhelmed me.”

 “Really.”

“Do you know how hard it is, sitting next to you sometimes when you’re . . . looking like you do and touching me, and knowing that I can’t presently do anything about it? Do—it fucking kills me, you know.”

Bono’s throat bobbed. “I know. I mean, I can imagine.”

“Can you?”

“Don’t be dense, Edge, it’s beneath you.”

Edge paused. “Oh. Right.”

They looked at each other, and then Bono shook his head. “How the hell did we go from you pressing me up against the wall to this?”

“Well, I don’t want to place blame,” Edge started, “but, as is often the case, you opening your mouth was a big part of the problem.”

Bono’s eyebrows shot up, as his hands dropped down. “This fuckin’ guy. I tell you, Edge, with such an opinion I don’t think you’ll be having to worry about my mouth opening tonight, if you catch my drift.”

“That’s disappointing. I had such a nice mental image of you on your knees and everything.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Can your mind be swayed, do you think?”

Bono rolled his eyes. His hands, though, came back up, one finding Edge’s chest, the other his neck. He drew Edge close enough for their noses to bump, and when they kissed Bono was hesitant to pull away. “Of course,” he murmured before dropping to his knees, “you know I’m easy.”

 


End file.
